My Failed Seduction of Elliot Perlman

I couldn't have been more excited. There, on the panel at the Sydney Jewish Writers Festival, were the two great literary loves of my life - Mark Dapin and Elliot Perlman.

Mark I already know. This is because I stalked him at a previous Jewish writers function, declaring my love for his columns and his tattoos, excitedly showing him examples of my columns and tattoos, and generally becoming a nuisance for the next year or so until he agreed to be my friend. He is the funniest man I know, and quite stunningly talented, and I adore him.

Elliot I had never met, though his book 'Seven Types of Ambiguity' is among my all time favorite. He spoke in soothing, caramel tones of war and responsibility, with such cerebral gravitas I was ready to lie down before him with my legs in the air. The curly brown hair, chiseled features and twinkly eyes didn't hurt, either.

Poor Elliot. All he wanted to do was write books.

After the session I proceeded to the book signing area with about 20,000 of his and Mark's other fans - bizarrely, nearly all of them female. I chatted to Mark, whose hat was cutting off the circulation to his head, and waited for my chance to sit on Elliot's knee talk to Mr Perlman.

The time came. And here, for your reading pleasure, are just a few snippets of the actual, genuine, conversation I had with my literary idol:

Me: You are my fantasy man.
Elliot: Um... oh.

Me: Are you on Twitter?
Elliot: No, I don't know how to work it. I need to learn.
Me: I'm giving a course on Twitter next Tuesday, come along, I'll get you in for free!
Elliot: Sadly I'm going back to Melbourne tomorrow.
Me: That's okay, I'll come to your hotel room and give you a private lesson!

Me: Do you know any Sackvilles in Melbourne?
Elliot: I know many. I know Lindi Sackville.
Me: She's my cousin!
Elliot: I used to have a crush on Lindi at school.
Me: Well now you can transfer that crush to me!
Elliot: Um.. aren't you married?
Me: Make me an offer and I don't have to be!

All in all I was devastatingly seductive and practically had Elliot drooling in anticipation of a special, two person book club all of our own.

Except that I wasn't, at all. I was a tragic, middle aged groupie, who had to get home to her husband and kids. Which I did, with my tail between my legs, and a copy of The Street Sweeper clutched in my hands.

It was inscribed 'It was a pleasure to meet you'. And that, my friends, is what I cling to.

Death By Chapter 19

Many of you will know that I am currently writing my second book, the title of which is not 'When My Husband Does The Dishes...' because I have used that one already. Also, the book is not about my husband, or dishes (though the former may get the occasional mention).

My manuscript is due on the first of November, which is not far away at all, though obviously further away than, say, tomorrow.

I have been powering through the book so far. It is on a topic I know a great deal about (so definitely not fame or money) and one that is very close to my heart (so definitely not country and western music). So far I have written up to two chapters a week, pouring my words into the keyboard much like Boo poured water into my keyboard just a few days ago (with, hopefully, less disasterous results).

Still, all good things must come to an end, and this week, my writing has done just that. Because I am stuck. At Chapter 19.

I can't tell you what Chapter 19 is about because it would spoil Chapters 1 through 18 for you. And besides, you'll see for yourself when you buy the book next May. Except that Chapter 19 may not be Chapter 19 by then. After editing it may be Chapter 18 or 20, or even Chapter 1, though that would be unfortunate, as it would disrupt the flow of the entire book. But still...

I can't write Chapter 19. I don't know why, but I can't. In fact, if I knew why, then possibly I would be able to write it, so perhaps not knowing why I can't write it is the key. All I know is that I've been trying to write it for a week now, and have come up with nothing more than a few shopping lists, a letter to my daughter's school about why she needed to be excused early on Wednesday, and a video blog on beauty tips (which - as I know as much about beauty tips as I do about country and western music - really shows I was scraping the bottom of the barrel).

I have asked my husband repeatedly for advice and he has been as close to useless as one can get. He told me to skip Chapter 19 and move straight on to Chapter 20, which is completely untenable as far as I'm concerned. For one thing, Chapter 19 comes before Chapter 20 (the fact that '19' comes before '20' is a dead giveaway) and so I can't write the latter before writing the former. For another thing, I am completely obsessive, and can think of nothing else until I squeeze Chapter 19 out.

I told my husband he had been very unhelpful and he just shrugged. "What would you have liked me to do?" he asked.

I didn't respond, as I was too cranky, and besides, I was still trying to compose the first sentence for Chapter nine-fucking-teen. But now, for his elucidation and future reference, I shall outline ways he could actually have helped me. For his convenience, they are ordered from least to most useful:

1. Give me some writing exercises to get me inspired to write Chapter 19;
2. Give me the first line of Chapter 19;
3. Come up with an alternative to Chapter 19, for example 'Chapter 18.5';
4. Write a letter to my publisher excusing me from having to write Chapter 19, for example 'The bunny ate Chapter 19;
5. Write a letter to my readers excusing me from having to write Chapter 19, for example 'The book works far better without Chapter 19;
6. Write Chapter 19 for me;
7. Get Mark Dapin to write Chapter 19 for me;
8. Burn the whole bloody manuscript and get me a job in a cake shop. I like cake.

A Relieved Post

A couple of years ago, I went to hear the writer Mark Dapin give a talk. I'd admired his work for years, and was terribly excited to meet him. I can't recall exactly what I said when I accosted him after his speech, but I do recall showing him my tattoos, which probably indicates that my introduction was not the most sophisticated. Or subtle. Then again, I do tend to show complete strangers my tattoos, so it wasn't particularly unusual either.

Still, I couldn't have made too bad an impression. Mark and I fell into regular email contact (by which I mean I relentlessly emailed him until he emailed back) and eventually became friends (by which I mean I relentlessly email him until he emails back). We've even been out to dinner with our respective spouses, a fun, if rather humiliating occasion which I discussed at length here.

Observant readers of this blog will note that I only really talk about three men, each of whom have their own categories. In the lead is my husband (who has scored 19 tags), following closely behind is Simon Baker (who has scored 13), and bringing up the rear is Mark (5 and counting). A friend of mine who noticed this suggested that perhaps I want to sleep with Mark, given that I certainly want to sleep with Simon, and already sleep with my husband*. The reality, however, is that I already have a short, balding Jewish man (except this week, when he is in China) and that I purely want Mark for his emails.

Last week one of Mark's emails mentioned that he'd recently written a novel, 'Spirit House', a fact I was vaguely aware of, as he mentions it in every single email he sends me. The book, he said, had actually hit the shelves, so I could read it if I liked.

Well, I wasn't sure. To be perfectly honest, I get nervous reading novels by my favourite columnists. They often turn out to be really crap, as writing columns is a very different skill to writing fiction. But I couldn't exactly say no, because that's rude, and I pride myself on my manners**. So I started reading.

'Spirit House' is a beautiful, funny, moving, evocative book. Thirteen year old David has been shipped off to his grandparents' house in Bondi so his mum can spend time with her much younger lover. His Jewish grandfather, Jimmy, a veteran of POW camps on the Thailand-Burma railway, is having flashbacks to the war, and eventually shares his stories with David. Jimmy's recounts of his war experiences are painfully evocative and insightful, but the Greek Jewish chorus of his old friends and drinking buddies Solly, Katz and Meyer, and Jimmy's long-suffering wife Frida, balance the narrative with levity, wit and genuine laugh-out-loud humour.

I am loving 'Spirit House', to my intense relief, because it would have been incredibly awkward to tell Mark it sucked. Buy it.

*Well, on occasion
**Except when flashing my tattoos at complete strangers

Friends & Embarrassment

On Saturday night my husband and I went to dinner with the writer Mark Dapin and his partner, Claire. We arrived at the restaurant perfectly on time, partly because I am very punctual, and partly because I like to be on time with Mark to remind him of the fact that he was half an hour late to my book launch. Which would have been fine, except that he was launching it.

I scanned the room, but Mark was nowhere to be seen.

"Shall I zeet you at yer tubble?" asked the waiter*.

"Sure," I said.

"You are tu?"

"No, we are four."

"You are fur?" he asked, and indicated a woman standing by the bar. "You are weez zis lady here?"

I looked at the lady. She was tall with long brown hair and long pale arms. I had never met Claire, so didn't know if it was her. However, I figured that as long term partners frequently ended up looking like each other, she would probably be short, balding and covered head to toe with tattoos.

"I don't think so," I said.

"But mebbe she iz weez you?" the waiter insisted.

So I had to ask.

I tapped the woman on the shoulder. "Are you Claire?" She shook her head haughtily, which I took as a 'no'. The waiter gave an unconvinced hurrumph, as if I was deliberately making things difficult.

"Come zees way," he said. We followed him to a table where a pretty, blonde woman sat alone.

"So. You are weez zis lady here?"

I hoped fervently that there weren't 25 single women in the restaurant because this could get old very quickly.

"Are you Claire?" I asked the woman.

"Yes," she told me, just as a short, balding, tattooed man appeared behind her. Thank god. The waiter looked triumphant. We were all seated.

The four of us chatted for a while, and then it was time to order drinks.

"I'll have a beer," said Mark.

"I'll have a champagne cocktail," said Claire.

"I'll have a glass of pinot noir," said I. And then I winced, bracing myself for the inevitable.

"I'll have a chocolate orange martini!" said my husband, and I felt a slight wave of relief. A choc orange martini wasn't that bad. Okay, so it wasn't exactly beer, but it also wasn't a 'Sunset Kiss', a 'Cosmopolitan' or a 'One For The Girls, all of which are cocktails my husband has ordered in the past**.

(Now, let me clarify: I am not implying that my husband should be a real man and order a beer. But... would it kill him just once in a while to be a real man and order a beer?)

The conversation drifted to New York, which we had all recently visited. Mark pointed out his shirt, which he had bought there for $150, after it was reduced from $850. I tell you this because he repeated it several times, and that snippet of information is now seared into my brain like the alphabet, or the names of all the Young Talent Time members.

He then mentioned to my husband the amount of his advance for his latest book, which was large, and also seared into my brain, because I had heard him tell me before, and you don't forget a figure like that.

Keenly aware of my own, comparitively small, advance, I struggled to say something impressive. "I read somewhere that it is the job of a good agent to ensure that your advance is so big that you will never get a royalty cheque," I said knowledgeably, confident that I would generate an interesting line of conversation.

"Er... yeah.... I told you that," said Mark. And that was that.

We chatted some more and ate an enormous amount of French food, which was lucky as I am wasting away after our recent holiday to the states***. And nothing else of note happened, which seemed to disappoint Mark, as he was hoping to get some material for his next column.

I, on the other hand, can make a blog post out of pretty much nothing, which is why you are reading this now.

*who was French, as I am attempting to demonstrate in my prose, but I am really shit at accents.
**except for the latter, which I made up.
***using 'wasting away' in the sense of  'gained three kilos'.

What Not To Blog About

The other day I clicked onto my friend Mark Dapin's blog, and I was horrified. Mark had posted a picture of a man - presumably a fan of his - wearing nothing but his underwear, several bandaids, and a catheter strapped to his leg.

Now, Mark is a prominent Fairfax journalist, and the author of several excellent books. And yet the man clearly has not the slightest clue about how to write a blog - at least not one that will not induce the gag reflex in all but the strongest stomach-ed* of readers.

I had met with Mark the previous week to discuss his blog. I gave him several tips on how he could attract a wider blog readership, and 'include a picture of a man in his undies with a catheter strapped to his leg' was definitely not amongst them. However, clearly I had not been specific enough, because - as Mark pointed out to me in a subsequent email - I did not tell him not to post a picture of a man in his undies with a catheter strapped to his leg. So to Mark and his readers, I apologise. I have failed.













Still, I am nothing if not conscientious**, and I am determined to rectify the situation. So here is a comprehensive list of things for Mark to Not Blog About. Feel free to add your own points to the list, and of course you are all encouraged to Not Blog About these subjects yourself.

Mark, Do Not Blog About:

• Men in undies with catheters strapped to their legs.
• Your bowel habits. They may be utterly fascinating to you - I have noticed that many men are utterly fascinated by all of their bodily functions - but they truly are of no interest to the general population (except, of course, for colorectal specialists, but such a small percentage of your blog readers are likely to be colorectal specialists that this is entirely inconsequential).
• Anything at all to do with breakfast cereal. Despite the best efforts of advertisers to convince us otherwise, breakfast cereal is intrinsically boring.
• Your scrotum, or indeed any man's scrotum. Scrotums are silly and we don't want to read about them.
• Bits of your body that have fallen off. That is just disgusting.
• Things you have found between your teeth. That is also disgusting, and there are probably many more of them than bits of your body that have fallen off.
• Things you have found in your navel. See above.
• Delightful anecdotes about your kids. I mean, I'm sure they are very delightful, and there are many anecdotes about them, but we only want to hear about what they do wrong, so that we can feel better about how useless our own children are.
• Delightful anecdotes about your partner. See above.
• Anything at all to do with the Kardashians. Oh you'll get hits on your blog all right. But I will unfollow you like THAT.

*and no, I'm not sure this is actually a word, but you get my drift
**actually, I am many things if not conscientious, but this is not the forum to discuss exactly what things

My Midnight Interview, And How I Nearly Broke Into 2DayFM

Yesterday I had the pleasure of being interviewed by Iain Dale, of UK radio station LBC. It was a challenging interview, mainly because it began at 6am (to correspond with 9pm British time) and I had to get up at 4.45 in the morning to be there on time. Now, not only do I object to being awake at 4.45 in the morning, I object to the very concept of 4.45 in the morning. 4.45 is not 'morning'. 4.45 is 'night time'. Quite frankly, nothing before the hour of 6am is 'morning' in my book. If it is dark, it is not day. End of story.














The interview was held in Iain's temporary digs at the 2DayFM studios in Sydney's World Square. Having knocked back two black coffees just to get myself out of the house, by the time I arrived I I was desperate to use the... er.... facilities. Iain was on air and his male assistant had no idea where the bathroom was (clearly these British men have Bladders of Steel) so I was handed a security pass and allowed to roam the building in search of the elusive loo.

I ended up on the deserted top floor, dazed and busting. With no toilet in sight, I tried to open the door that looked most like a potential bathroom. It didn't open. I leaned against it, heavily. I pushed, hard. Still nothing. In my desperation, I considered knocking it down, until a passing cleaner informed me that it was Kyle and Jackie O's studio. I contemplating pounding on the door pleading for help (surely Jackie would occasionally need to use a toilet?) until the cleaner told me they were on hiatus and sent me to the bathroom downstairs.

Back on the ground floor, and feeling much lighter, I was ushered into the studio with Mark Dapin, my fellow author and interviewee. To my horror, the walls of the studio were painted in lurid shades of fluroscent pink, which at that unspeakable hour, literally made my eyes bleed. (Okay, so not literally, as that would have required hospitalisation, but certainly metaphorically). Mark and I sat there, blinking in the candy radiance, desperately  trying to retrieve our brains. I clutched a Berocca, in the pathetic hope of being energised. Mark, a non-coffee drinker, sipped from a bottle of Vanilla Diet Coke. At 6 in the morning. As you do.

The interview went well, despite Mark and I being half asleep, and Iain - who had been awake for the past 24 hours - being three-quarters asleep. At one point Mark knocked his Vanilla Coke onto the floor, which bothered no-one, as it was not our studio. At several points Iain began coughing uncontrollably, but as he managed to locate the Mute button on his microphone this bothered no-one either. At another point I found a couple of pairs of Christmas reindeer ears, which Mark and I donned just as the conversation turned to Australia's native marsupials. We felt this carried a message of support for our animal friends, but probably baffled Iain's assitant when he came to peek through the window.

At 7am, it was all over and we stumbled out into the gloom. It was lovely to meet Iain, and to connect with my British fans (none of whom have actually heard of me, as my book is not yet available in the UK), but I never want to see that hour of the 'day' again.

Those reindeer ears, however.... I miss them already.

The Launch

Wow.

Well, my book launch was the Best Night Ever.

I have not been able to post before now,

1. because I haven't had time,
2. because I was drunk for much of Thursday and Friday
3. because around halfway through signing 100 books the synapses between my brain and fingers began to degenerate, and I lost the ability to write. In fact, I believe many of the last 30 of the books I signed bear the moniker 'Ken'.

There is much to be told about The Night. The fact that I panicked when my book launcher Mark Dapin* turned up a half hour late. The fact that I panicked when Mark Dapin did turn up, because he had threatened to just 'say the first thing that popped into' his head, and he has a background in girlie mags, and I was worried he'd just be thinking about porn. The fact that I had absolutely no idea what one writes when signing a book, and I 'may' have written inappropriate things about breasts and Simon Baker. The fact that said Simon Baker did not turn up, despite my publisher's assurances at the time of signing me to Random House that they would definitely find him for me. The fact that I met some of the most awesome bloggers and tweeps in the online world, and many of them travelled on planes and trains and even buses to be with me. The fact that the launch party progressed to a pub down the road where I proceeded to drink such copious amounts of champagne that my husband The Architect imposed a drinking curfew on me (which I proceeded to ignore once he was out of my sight). The fact that I became engrossed in a conversation about Young Talent Time and ending up leading a group of uber bloggers in a rousing chorus of 'Close your eyes and I'll kiss you'. The fact that I stumbled home with Kylie Ladd at around 1.20am after my husband The Architect gave up the ghost at around midnight, then stayed up talking till after 2am, then lay awake in bed till after 3am marvelling at the wonder of it all, then woke up as always at 6.15am despite the kids having slept at my mum's.

The fact that I am intensely grateful for the love and support that I have been shown by my family, my beautiful friends, my amazing Twitter buddies, and you, my blog readers.

The fact that whether my book sells five hundred or five thousand or fifty thousand copies, I have had the best time of my life.

*read his blog. No-one does, but the guy is a genius. Trust me.

I was showing Lana how well I had shaved under my arms.







Me and Kylie. She drank as much as me. Almost.....








This is not The Architect. He is The Publisher. Apparently the women at the launch found him attractive. I'd never noticed. (Ahem...)





Mark Dapin. I was thrilled he agreed to launch my book. And.... er.... dress up for the occasion.